Not Bored
by dame-meditation
Summary: When diagnosis is defined by symptom and not cause, it is woefully inexact. Sherlock realizes that no matter the diagnosis, he does not want to be alone. The question becomes, Is it love? Rated T for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1 - Storm

**This is my first Sherlock Fan Fic. Not brit-picked. Please be kind to me. I own zip, nadda, zilch.**

Sherlock was not bored. He was silent and thinking. The fire was burning in the hearth. The wind was blowing outside, and whistling around the window frames. John sat in his chair, quiet, softly sleeping, snuffling almost. He wore the grey jumper that Sherlock imagined was soft. He wore jeans that were worn and soft from repeated wear and washing. Sherlock watched John.

He wanted to touch him. No doubt, his clothes were soft enough, but what about the rest? Men were all angles, all physical force. Sherlock needed soft things. Stimuli overwhelmed him. Soft shirts. Soft pants. Soft robes. And sometimes nothing was enough to take the flood of feeling away, not even his own nudity. _But perhaps John's hands…_

He did not want to be alone. He did not want John to find a woman and move out and do his Watson-ish things elsewhere. Sherlock loved the man. He was also incapable of saying so. He didn't know what it meant. He didn't know what it would mean to John. There were only so many possible outcomes. Many ended with a rejection. What would happen then?_ I would cease to be. Somehow. I would cease to be._

But if it could work? Perhaps he could pretend it wasn't overwhelming. Perhaps they could have love. _No_ _one would be as loyal as I am. No one else would chase after sensory pain, just to make John happy._

_What if I am incapable of love? What if this is just about possession? The literature is clear. Desire to possess him, as though he were a thing, is not outside the realm of possibility._

Sherlock found the thought offensive, but then, being pinned by the needle always was. Pinned, and wriggling on the wall._ Sociopath. Defined. Unable to be anything else. _Still, he was tired of ignoring what was fundamental. _I am gay. I am._ He whispered this to the room, to his softly snoring John, and then stepped softly out, into the stairwell, and down the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2 - Missing

John checked his phone again. No texts. He'd woken up as the fire had gone out and the temperature in the flat had plummeted. It was 2 a.m., a storm was raging, and Sherlock's room was empty.

_If there was a case_, he mused, _Sherlock would have woken me_. Ever since his return from the dead, Sherlock had been taking extra care to make sure John knew what he was getting up to at any point in time, whether he thought he'd be pleased with the idea or not. Like "John, I'm going to go confront a killer, wait ten minutes and text Lestrade." Or the other day, the statement had been "John, I'm putting a bloody cat carcass in the oven, so you may want to step out." John had told Lestrade that it was like having a crazed teenager in the house who warned you that he might steal the car, and then promptly stole it.

He stared at his phone and willed it to chime.

Five minutes later, when a text did arrive, it wasn't from the right Holmes.

_Get dressed. I'm sending a car. – MH_

_What's wrong? Where's Sherlock? – JW_

_Be outside in 10 minutes. – MH_

When John climbed into the car, his fellow backseat passenger was not an assistant, but Mycroft Holmes himself. John frowned.

Mycroft leaned forward to the driver and said, "You know the general vicinity. Just make the loop until we've caught up to him."

John was getting angry. He'd learned the hard way though that losing his temper with a Holmes would get him exactly nowhere. He drew a measured breath. "Mycroft-"

"Have you two had a fight?" Mycroft interrupted, pursing his lips as he finished, as though he needed to know, but most definitely did not want to know. "He didn't" Mycroft paused, "He didn't tell you anything? Say anything that would upset you?"

"What?" John said, frowning. "No? What are you talking about? Is Sherlock alright?"

Mycroft let out a sigh. "Sherlock has been pacing the streets of London in the pouring rain for the last four hours. He hasn't gone inside anywhere, he hasn't spoken with anyone, and his paths are turning into ever-widening circles. Oh yes, and he has managed to make an obscene gesture at each and every one of the public CCTV cameras he's come across. Yes, even the ones we thought were well hidden." That last part came out in a whine, as though it were especially irksome.

"I don't - " John shook his head. "Everything was fine when I fell asleep."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Well, he was off in his mind palace this evening, but that's not unusual." John realized that Sherlock had been retreating inside himself more often of late, but that was none of Mycroft's damn business.

Mycroft nodded, leaned back against the seat, and closed his eyes. "What are the odds, do you think, doctor, that he has managed to procure any illegal substances?"

John opened his mouth to respond with an emphatic "Non-existent!" when the car lurched to a halt.

The driver turned and cried "Got 'im! He's just up the street here."

John got out of the car quickly. Whatever it was, he'd deal with it himself. _We don't need Mycroft_, he thought, as he approached the sodden detective.

When John was a little boy, he'd had a rather fluffy kitten named Abigail that liked to sit at edge of his bath and swipe at the water with her paws. One day, she'd slipped and fallen in, and all the cuteness was gone in an instant as this angry, rat-like creature had fled the tub yowling.

Sherlock looked worse.


	3. Chapter 3 - Diagnosis

**To everyone who has read so far and followed, Thank you! I'm sorry about the gap on the update - my muse stopped speaking to me briefly. As previously stated, not beta'd and not brit-picked.**

* * *

What worried John most after looking Sherlock over was that it didn't appear that the man marching straight toward him had even seen him. _His gaze is down and away from the rain_, thought John, _that's all_. Still, John couldn't shake a nagging sense of foreboding. Sherlock noticed everything. Everything.

"Sherlock?" John called, as he drew nearer. Sherlock looked up as he noticed the sound of John's voice mingled with the many sounds of the rain drops as they splashed down on the trees, the awnings, and the walk. John peeked out from beneath his hood and gave Sherlock a weak smile. "Feel like coming home?," John asked.

John watched as Sherlock shook himself out of whatever trance he was in and finally saw John, and the car behind him. His blank expression changed to a sneer in an instant. "Only if we're _walking_ home." His voice rumbled and hitched as though his mouth and throat were quite dry.

John sighed and nodded. "Sure." They weren't all that far now anyway.

When John and Sherlock turned and started walking toward a separate cross street, Mycroft and his driver seemed to get the hint. The car idled for just a moment longer before pulling away.

The sun was coming up as they made their way back to 221b. John watched Sherlock watching him and decided now was not the time to ask.

* * *

One text. Much to Sherlock's irritation, that was all it ever took with Mycroft. Mycroft just knew. It wasn't his brother's knowledge that bothered Sherlock, it was that he couldn't read Mycroft nearly as well. Not that he'd ever admit that. God, no, not to anyone.

_You offered to help once. – SH_

_You'll have the information you need tomorrow. - MH_

* * *

Sherlock decided in the waiting room that he wasn't going to stay. _I'll keep my coat on_, he thought.

Ushered in by the receptionist (single, bisexual, boyfriend owns a Shar-Pei), Sherlock walked in through the door and observed that he had to walk past the therapist to reach the couch. _No quick exits. Of course._

He sits and turns his focus on her. (Late for Work, Takes her Coffee Black, Good at Mirroring Facial Expressions). _Friend or Foe?_ "My brother says you are the best at what you do."

Dr. Elise Houck looked up from the file Mycroft had sent. "I'm decent at it." She tucked a loose lock of brown hair behind her ear. "I'm sure you've done your own research Mr. Holmes, or you wouldn't be here."

A few moments of silence went by as they watched each other. "You don't think I'm a sociopath," Sherlock said. He was neither impressed nor disappointed. Feeling empty was getting to be the painful usual.

She didn't respond, and went back to scanning the file. "Do you think the diagnosis of sociopathy in a four-year-old in the 1980s should or would be considered particularly valid by today's standards?"

Sherlock crossed his arms and leaned back into the couch. "Alright then, define me."

"No," she said, smiling. "Unless?" she paused.

Sherlock did not take the bait, but continued to stare. He was no longer four years old, nor was he an imbecile.

Elise smiled. "Unless, we talk about what you are not."

"Proceed."

"You are not a sociopath. You are not autistic, per se. Though you do present pieces of pathology present on the spectrum, you are way too, forgive the expression, 'With it,' to garner that diagnosis.

"Obvious," Sherlock muttered and rose to head for the door.

Elise sighed and stood to block his exit. "I think you are an asocial genius, and possibly suffering from tactile defensiveness that you've minimized with your own coping mechanisms. In a word, you are 'unique.'"

As Sherlock tried to push past her, the doctor grabbed him by his coat. "Oh yes, and your brother thinks you are in love."

Sherlock blinked. He turned back and took off his coat.


End file.
